Pamela Yaye - Games of the Heart

“He’s late,” Sage announced, her eyes fixed on the front door of Champions Sports Bar. Aside from the couples playing pool and the heavily pierced server shuffling back and forth between the kitchen and the dining area, the place was empty. “Are you sure he’ll be here? It’s almost nine. You said he’d be here at eight.”

The bartender nodded. “I’m positive. Every Saturday night Marshall and his army buddies swap war stories until closing.”

“Where do they sit?”

He motioned with his head. “Corner booth, next to the washrooms.”

“How many guys?”

“Usually five, sometimes as many as eight.” He added a splash of vodka and a pinch of Cointreau triple sec liquer to the metal shaker, then shook it vigorously. “They crack jokes, play pool and hit on the ladies.”

Convinced it would be the same game once he got a look at her sexy outfit, she smoothed her hands down the length of her miniskirt. “Does he have a girlfriend?”

He furrowed his scruffy eyebrows. “Hell if I know. I just fix the guys drinks. Never seen a woman with him though.”

“This is for your trouble.” Sage slid a twenty-dollar bill toward him.

“Hey, if you need anything else, just ask!” he yelled, his voice suddenly infused with enthusiasm.

“Thanks, kid,” she said, though he could only be a few years younger than she.

“The name’s Gamble and I’m here ’til closing!”

Feeling restless, and anxious to see Marshall, Sage headed for the row of pool tables. She’d visited the Grant home yesterday, and for the last twenty-four hours she had thought of nothing but Khari and Marshall. Well, mostly Marshall. And the more she thought about him, the more persistent her doubts. He was sharp, clever, discerning. Hell, he’d been a sharpshooter! There was no fooling him. If she wanted to taste the sweet juice of success, she’d have to modify her plan. There was too much at stake for her to mess up.

Taking a sip of her cocktail, she rested the glass on one of the raised wooden tables. Life-size photographs of sports icons covered the walls, flat-screen TV’s were mounted in corners, stadium chairs sat on polished floors and fan memorabilia was splashed across the room. Champions Sports Bar had a high-energy atmosphere and Sage knew it was just a matter of time before every seat in the place was filled.

Spotting the dartboard, she went over and retrieved the five missile-shape darts. Playing a round of darts would kill some time and provide the perfect distraction until Marshall showed up. She leaned forward, arching her back and lifting her shoulders, Sage released the first dart. It struck the wall. Shaking her head at the error, she tried again. Same results. The third dart hit the bottom of the target.

“At least it hit the board this time.”

Sage cast a sideways glance at the man beside her. He was of average height, had rippling forearms confined to a rock-hard chest and a black muscle shirt.

“Do we know each other?” she asked, wishing he’d disappear.

“We met a few weeks back at Studio 29.”

His voice was coarse, but Sage didn’t know if that was his natural tone or if he had a case of bronchitis. Either way, he was giving her a headache. Resisting the urge to cover her ears with her hands, she said, “No we didn’t. I’ve only been in Indianapolis for three days, so there’s no way we could’ve met last month.”

“Don’t try to play me. You were smiling in my face, ordering the priciest drinks on the menu, then slipped me some bogus number at the end of the night.”

“We’ve never met,” she repeated, imaging herself shooting him with a dart. Picturing a dart pricking his butt cheek brought a smirk to her lips.

“What’s so funny? You laughin’ at me?”

“Like I said, I’m not from around here. I’m in town on business.”

“For real?” His scowl fell away and was replaced with a hearty grin. “My bad. Sorry ’bout that. I’m Denzel.”

Oh, no, you’re not, she thought, facing the dartboard.

“What’s your name?”

To signal the end of the conversation, Sage narrowed her eyes in precision and shot the dart. It landed on the outer wire.

“Looks like you could use some pointers.”

“Bye. Enjoy the rest of your night. Have a nice life.”

“Don’t be like that, girl. You know you want my help.”

“No, I don’t,” she argued. “I know how to play. I’m just rusty.”

“It’s no fun playing alone.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Come on, girl.” Denzel took giant steps toward her, his hot vodka breath preceding him. “I promise to take it easy on you.”

Sage faced her tormenter. “I don’t need your help. Now, if you want to play a game, that’s another story. How about a friendly round to start? Is twenty bucks low enough for you? Or should we do ten?”

“Naw—twenty bucks a round is cool.”

“No, I meant per dart.”

“That’s a hundred bucks a game!”

“That’s not going to be a problem for you is it, Denzel?” she asked, forcing herself not to laugh in his face. “It’s up to you. I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

He gulped. “That’s chump change. I can handle it.”

“Good. We’ll take turns shooting the darts. The first one to zero wins!”

“Sounds fair to me,” he agreed, his eyes flicking anxiously around the bar. The place was starting to fill up. Massaging the back of his neck, he fed her a shaky smile. “Ten minutes ago this place was empty. Now, it’s, uh, full.”

She retrieved the darts from the board, then offered them to him.

“I can’t.” He held up his hands and stepped aside. “What kind of guy would I be if I didn’t let you go first? I’m a gentleman, girl. Go on and do your thing.”

Sage leaned forward, poised to shoot. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“She’s kicking his ass!”

The men sitting in the corner booth howled with laughter.

“Damn! She got another bull’s eye!” Roderick Baxter thumped his fist against the table. “And she’s making it look easy too.”

Marshall tasted his Hennessey cognac. Swallowing proved difficult. His jaw ached from laughing. If Roderick wasn’t poking fun at the player-wannabe strutting around the room like a seventies pimp, he was taking cheap shots at Denzel Patterson, the missing member of their three-man group.

“I feel for Patterson, though. There’s a crowd around them and everything.” Emilio Sanchez shook his head. “He’ll never be able to live this one down. Getting spanked by a woman at darts? Twice? Shoot. We might as well look for a new hangout spot, because after tonight, he’ll never be able to show his face in here again.”

“Serves him right for going over there in the first place.” Roderick draped an arm around the booth. “We told him not to, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Marshall defended his friend. “Can you blame him? We’ve all been there. How many times have you approached a beautiful woman only to have her shoot you down so bad you’re heart plunged to your knees?”

“You’re right, Grant,” Emilio agreed, his dark brown eyes full of lust. “And that sister over there is hot to death. That chest, those hips, and check out her legs.”

“She could wrap them around me twice!” Admiring the woman from afar, but wishing she was only a breath away, Roderick smoothed a hand over his mustache. “I’d do basic training all over again if she was the drill sergeant!”

Chuckles broke out across the table.

Returning his gaze across the room, Marshall watched the crowd dissipate, leaving Denzel and the shapely sister in the denim miniskirt. When she turned around, he got a clear, unrestricted view of her face. As he watched her count her winnings, it suddenly clicked where they had met before. It was the World Mission volunteer. Marshall thought she’d looked familiar, but couldn’t immediately place her. Downing the rest of his drink, he slipped out of the booth. “Be right back, fellas.”